The First Occurrence
by myidiocyismaskedbymysass
Summary: Sherlock/OC. Sherlock and John take a case involving a politician, a scandal and a journalist. Sherlock, being a little out of his depth, but loath to admit it, en lists the help of a political journalist, who just happens to run right past his window. Sherlock soon finds that, this woman, has taken a rather more permanent home in his life than he first expected.
1. The Runner

AN: Hi! I am relatively new to writing Sherlock, by which I mean, I have written, just never published. Not too sure why i chose to publish this one, I'm not very good at writing romance... I hope you enjoy my story, and constructive criticism is always welcomed, as are complements, however neither are mandatory.

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The Runner-

Monday 8/1/13- 7:30am

Sherlock was bored. Well, Sherlock was nearly always bored. But this morning Sherlock was particularly bored. John was still asleep, there was no case for Sherlock to be working on, and John had threatened to throw his violin out of the window if Sherlock ever played it at an 'inappropriate' time again. These 'inappropriate' times being; before eight thirty in the morning, after eleven o'clock in the evening, or when, as John put it, 'other people would consider it rude to do so'. For example, John had indicated, when others are talking, apparently playing just to drown out the sound of their voices, was rude. Also, John suggested, that he was not to play his violin as if he was sawing at wood, when Donovan or Anderson were around. Not because John thought it was mean to do so, but because the sound offended the efforts of singing cats.

Sherlock was so bored, he gazed out of his bedroom window, looking for something to catch his interest. This plan did not come to fruition; this morning was in no way special or exciting. The sky was blue, ish. The London skyline brought little to the imagination and the streets were as disgustingly boring as they always were. There was nothing for Sherlock to speculate or deduce.

That was until a runner came jogging down the footpath, and Sherlock, with nothing else to do, decided to test his skills of observation.

This women was:

5'8. Tall, but not too tall. She is confident, because of her height and stands straight with good posture, which gives the illusion that she is even taller than she is. Indicating that she is good at intimidating others, and probably does so on a regular basis, meaning she would be successful in her career.

Her posture is really very good. She was a ballet dancer growing up, as her shoulders are back, but she manages not to stick her chest out and curve her back, this gives her strong back, thighs and gluteal. Indicative to ballet dancers. However she has a slight hunch in her neck, showing that she spends much of her time at a laptop.

She wears a matching running suit of a popular and expensive sports brand. Indicating that she earns a decent wage, and feels the need to spend too much on unnecessary items. Suggesting she didn't have much money growing up, so feels the need to buy what she didn't have the funds to buy in her childhood.

Judging by the bags under her eyes, caused by lack of sleep, her job often kept her up late into the night. Suggesting that she spends long evenings at a laptop and days intimidating people.

Concluding that this woman is most likely a successful journalist, probably political, and often spends her time interviewing and intimidating well to-do, very powerful men. Sherlock could respect that.

He turned away from his window once she had passed and released a frustrated sigh and kicked his bed post, in a way his mother, and most probably John, would describe as childish. This notion didn't bother Sherlock and he kicked it again. He was just so bored.

He made his way into the living room and checked the time; 7:32am. Time was moving ridiculously slow today. Moving to the other side of the room, Sherlock, as gracefully as Sherlock does all things, flopped down onto the couch.

Time then decided to disappear completely to Sherlock, as he looked up again and the shadows that warden the room had slanted significantly. He must have been lost in his mind again. Time often felt different to Sherlock than it did to _other _people, but Sherlock didn't care about _other_ people. _Other _people were boring, they were idiots. Well, most of them. He glanced in the direction of John's room. There were exceptions.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

**Got another one for you. GL**

Reading the text, Sherlock smiled. He jumped off the couch and ran up to John's room, two steps at a time and slammed into his room, grinning.

"Come on, John, we can't be asleep all day!" John groaned and sat up. Glaring at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what-"he slurred, but was interrupted, as Sherlock turned and swept from his room, calling over his shoulder, "The game is on, John"

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I hope my literary skills meet your criteria for a good read, if so, yay to me, please keep reading. If no, well, I'm sorry I wasted your time and I shall en-devour to improve.

Remember R&R.

xxx


	2. The Corpse in the Constitution

Hello again! Thank you to everyone who has already favourited, followed, reviewed and read my first chapter. I would like to answer the query from AriaNorth, who asked whether the woman was Irene Adler. I am afraid that she will not be, but it was an interesting idea and I will see if I can put Irene in the story somewhere else, as I believe she would make an interesting contrast with my OC.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this next chapter. I hope I got the characters right. They are so hard to peg.

Right, so, enjoy...or don't. It's really your decision...

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The Corpse in the Constitution

"Wait, so Lestrade called you?" asked John in a confused tone.

"Yes, John. How long will it take for that to make it to your brain? I may require your assistance at the crime scene." Sherlock smirked, holding up the police tape, so John could duck under, then letting it go, accidently on purpose, just as Anderson was about to walk under it too.

"I mean" scowled John, "that he only usually calls you when he is stuck on a case, not straight away."

"Hmm, I quite agree" said Sherlock, in his, I know something you don't tone, which was practically permanent. "I should think that it has something to do with that" he gestured towards the end of the street, where a posh black car was parked, and the silhouette of a woman just visible, her head bowed over a phone. John rolled his eyes. It's not that he doesn't like Mycroft, it's just that, when one has been kidnapped, one tends not to feel favourably towards one's kidnappers. Unless one is suffering Stockholm syndrome. He tends to feel neutrally towards him most of the time, but now, he could just tell, that he was going to be irritated by brotherly competition over a corpse.

Sighing and pushing his irritation away, because he knew that both Holmes brothers would notice and spring on him, in a sudden truce, to gorge on him, like a couple of incredibly intelligent lions. Glancing, slightly apprehensively at his best friends retreating back, John jogged to catch up with the long strides of Sherlock Holmes.

They were approaching a large official looking building of stone. Sherlock noted from the masonry and the strong columns that the building was Edwardian, indicating wealth and prestige. Which made sense, seeing as Mycroft had decided to make an appearance. He only seemed to care about the 'important people'. The house was situated in a remote and upper class area of London. An area that was very private, the perfect place for an important politician to live.

They entered the house into an austere foyer. Sherlock raised his eyebrow at the rather ghastly furnishings. Everywhere he looked there was gold and glittering chandeliers. It was rather disorientating. Sherlock blinked once, before he and John were being escorted into a medium sized room off the hall that appeared to be an office. A mahogany desk in the centre, with packed bookshelves lining three of the four walls and an oil painting on the wall, depicting a landscape in a storm.

The reason that they were there, was slumped over the majestic desk, blood pooling under the left side of his torso. The man had on a very expensive suit, perfectly manicured nails and hair slicked with a liberal amount of oil. He was also very dead. Standing over the man, was Mycroft Holmes. Being all, posh and commanding. Staring at Sherlock's corpse like he knew exactly what he was doing, but Sherlock wasn't going to let that happen. This was Sherlock's territory and there was no way he was going to let his nosy, controlling brother take this from him.

Mycroft looked up and gave his brother his tight smile, which, when he saw Sherlock's tight posture and slight frown, slipped into a smirk. He stepped back from the corpse and gestured sarcastically, in a sweeping motion, for Sherlock to take his place by the carcass. Scowling deeper for a millisecond, Sherlock strode towards his puzzle.

Removing his pocket magnifying glass, Sherlock began searching for particulates. Something was wrong, Sherlock scanned the body quickly. There was nothing, nothing at all. This body had been cleared, cleaned, disinfected in every way. Sherlock snapped up and stared at his brother, sharply.

"I know" said Mycroft, "that's why I insisted you helped. I would have figured this one myself, of course, but I dread to think what would happen if I left for too long."

"Naturally" replied Sherlock, with a false air of nonchalance, whilst inside his insides were bubbling with the prospect of a truly challenging case, turning to glance at John, who had a wary expression on his face.

"What, exactly, are we getting ourselves into here?" the doctor asked as he moved forward to perform his own examination of the body. The cause of death appeared to be a small diameter stab wound between the sixth and seventh ribs at an angle of about 110˚, definitely fatal.

"His name is Sir Michael Salisbury, he is a politician of the very secret and important brand."

"Fantastic" added John sarcastically.

"Quite" sneered Mycroft, "I have given you access that I think you will need, but please be aware that your every move is now being monitored."

"You mean, more than they were before." Corrected Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "Right then, come on John, with so little to go on, we have some research to be doing."

With that Sherlock strode of, with John following slightly behind, attempting to keep up with his long strides. They left Mycroft in their wake, watching them with cool, calculated eyes, which hid a true fondness.

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OK, so I know I still haven't revealed who mystery woman is yet, but I need to set the scene. Be patient munchkins :D.

So remember, R&R

xxx


	3. We meet the Help

**YAY!** Chapter 3! Yeah, you get to meet the runner today.

I hope you enjoy this chapter. It is longer than the first chapters, but I hope I haven't waffled.

As always, constructive criticism is much appreciated.

xxx :D

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**We meet the Help**

"So, there really was nothing to see?" John asked.

They were now back in their flat and John was leaning against the door way into the kitchen, watching Sherlock pace the room, in a complicated circuit, involving climbing over most of the furniture and strange half pirouettes, to change direction.

Sherlock stared at John for a second, well, it was more like he was looking through John, rather than at him, but the result of John feeling incredibly exposed, was the same. John cleared his throat. Sherlock seemed to click back to reality. He waved his arms in the air, being the drama queen that he is, and turned, striding to the other end of the room.

"Of course there were things to see John. Don't be stupid. I saw the obvious over compensation for a lack of sexual skill, in the man's rather ghastly furnishings. I saw that he was ambidextrous, through the organisation of his desk, and no, before you say, he was the only one to use his desk. He was too proud and jealous a man to share. The problem is that we don't know if what is seen is the truth!"

Sherlock looked at John in the way a dog owner might look to their pedigree, hoping for them to perform a trick. Rolling his eyes, John shook his head. Sherlock lifted his eyes to the ceiling and, in the heat of the moment, spun, staring into the ceiling, searching for the lost hope he had briefly had for John's intelligence.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock, practically panted with excitement, "the crime scene was tampered with John! How can I know that the killer didn't plant these things? These thoughts. Clever, very clever. Ha!"

John raised his eyebrows. The corps had been cleaned. That could mean the rest of the crime scene had as well, but, if the murderer were so skilled, then why not hide it all. They could get away with murder. It was then that John remembered Sherlock telling him that psychopaths liked the attention of the chase. The fun of the game.

"It's a game" whispered John.

Sherlock turned to John, his eyebrow raised.

"Well of course it's a game John!"

Never one for compliments, was Sherlock.

A minute, or so, passed. Sherlock began banging the heel of his hand against his skull, alarmingly.

"Need more!" he yelled "Need more!"

He continued to bang his head and began pacing the room once more.

"Need more, what?" hurried John, grabbing at Sherlock's wrists to end the abuse on his head. "What, Sherlock?"

"Information!" Screamed Sherlock. John took a step back. "I don't have enough. I don't know enough!"

"Enough about what?" inquired John, in, what he hoped were calming tones.

"Politics, John. Political manoeuvring. People. Places. Motive!"

John nodded. Sherlock really didn't know a thing about politics.

"Argh!"

Sherlock stormed to his room. The last John heard of him that day, was the slam of his bedroom door.

The next morning Sherlock was still awake, he never slept on a case anyway, too busy to sleep. He paced his room, his light foot falls on dusty carpet the only sound to breech the concentrated silence that always lay heavy about a thinking Sherlock. He knew out dated names and irrelevant dates. But it was all for nothing. None of it related to the current case and for the second morning in a row, Sherlock gazed out of his window, in a loss.

The runner, the same as the day before, turned the corner at the top of Baker Street. Sherlock watched her for a second. Then he remembered.

Journalist.

Political journalist.

He flung open his window and leaned out as far he could without toppling down, to smash on the street below. The wind blew his curls over his face and stung his eyes. The light rain splattering, feebly on his face.

"Hey!" He shouted. The runner stopped. She peered around for a second, searching for the origin of the shout, when she spotted Sherlock she smiled slightly.

"You're Sherlock Holmes" She shouted in return. Raising her hand to her eyes, to shield them from the sun, shining from above 221B. She had a Cheshire accent and spoke with a certain finesse, attained from a good education.

"Congratulations. You have read the news." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Honestly, why did people feel the need to share their stupidity?

"I am the news, you twit."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, staring down his strong nose at the woman, standing below him.

"Exactly why I need your help. Come on."

The runner goggled at Sherlock, as he turned and closed the window. What was she meant to do now? Just waltz up to the door and saunter in. She considered just leaving, but that wouldn't solve anything. She'd probably just obsess for days and regret missing out on what could be the best thing to ever happen to her. Assist Sherlock Holmes. It was unheard of. The only help Sherlock Holmes needed was from his doctor John Watson.

It could be nothing.

It could be everything.

She nodded in determination and strode to the door. Hesitated, her hand hovering above the door knob. Then she grasped it firmly and the door was pulled away from her. She stumbled forward, but managed to steady herself before she fell, embarrassingly and far too clichéd into Sherlock's chest. He peered down at her, a question in his eyes. He raised his eyebrow and smirked when she straightened to meet his patronising gaze. Her eyes hard and a small smile gracing her lips.

"I'm not one to be easily intimidated, Mr Holmes."

"Oh, I know" He replied.

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So, I really hoped you enjoyed that. All support is welcome and does wonders for my ego :D

R&R

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